


shut up and dance

by hitlikehammers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Being a Flirty Little Shit, Bucky Barnes and the 21st Century, Dancing, Fluff, Happy Boys Being Happy and In Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Pop music, Schmoop, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve Rogers and the Case of the Perpetual Heart-Eyes, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loose limbed, no rules, moving to the rhythm without much sense to it at all: it was joy and freedom and everything Steve wanted for Bucky. But Steve was also a selfish, maudlin son of a bitch, so yes: there was a sliver of nostalgia left for what was done, and what was lost.</p><p>Not that Steve would trade <i>this</i>, though. Not for the <i>world</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. shut up and dance

**Author's Note:**

> This has everything to do with Sebastian Stan dancing in the [Ricki and the Flash Trailer](https://youtu.be/A1fZ7EKtfB0?t=21s). Blame that first, then blame me.
> 
> Updates every day, probably. Two today, because it's a US holiday and labor is the opposite of dancing. Yep.
> 
> Love to [weepingnaiad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad) for the beta and, as usual, not talking me out of writing/posting this like I asked her to <3

Steve’s pretty damn soaked with sweat, because going toe-to-toe with Nat is one hell of a workout.

So all he’s thinking about is tossing his grody clothes down the laundry chute and taking the absolute longest shower in the history of the world, because showers are one of Steve’s favorite things about this new century: hot as he wants, long as he wants, he can wash his hair five fucking times if he wants to and no one is going to be bitching at him, knocking at the door because he doesn’t share his shower, it’s his _shower_ and it’s awesome so—

He likes showers a lot. 

So that’s where Steve’s head is as he exits the elevator onto their floor.

And that’s when he sees it.

“I took his arm, I know just how it happened.” 

And the _it_ that he sees is the way Bucky is swaying his hips in that way that makes Steve’s mouth go dry and his pulse jump into his throat every fucking time. And Bucky is shimmying across the floor, socks gliding with the impossibly gorgeous grace he shows on the field, completely at odds with the near-crazed flailing of his upper limbs: spread to the sides, all open-palms shaking side to side before he bends at the elbows and starts working his shoulders, which is particularly impressive because he’s pausing every five seconds to pluck a snack from the bag of Munchies in his left hand— _fuck, Stevie, it’s a delicious revelation with every handful! Pretzels! Cheetos! Doritos! Those wavy grain chips! It’s like Chex-Mix on steroids, I love it!_ ; and given Bucky’s enthusiasm for Chex-Mix, that was saying something—but Bucky’s dancing and snacking and singing his heart out and maybe Steve can’t help himself but to drink it in like a dying man, a starving man.

A man so goddamn in love he cannot _stand_ it.

“We took the floor and I saaaaaaiiiidd!”

Bucky strikes a pose and lifts his hand, shakes his bag of Munchies straight into his wide-open mouth, and fuck if _that_ image doesn’t send Steve’s blood racing all over again, in a whole different way, on a whole other level that sparring with Nat could never dream to touch. 

“Oh don’t you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me,” and Bucky’s shuffling backwards, chewing through his singing and he’s adorable, he’s fucking _adorable_ and Steve is so head-over-heels he could fuckin’ cry.

“He said ‘I can’t dance Buck,’ I said [shut up and dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6JCLY0Rlx6Q) with me!” 

Bucky’s just about to where Steve’s standing, now, and Steve doesn’t have to think when he hears what Bucky does to the lyrics next:

“That dumb punk is my destiny.”

No, Steve doesn’t have to think at all.

“You said ooooo-a-ooooo,” Steve rumbles it low, grins at the widening of Bucky’s eyes as Steve wraps an arm around his waist and lets Bucky glide into his hold.

And then Bucky rolls his hips against Steve’s front and it’s Steve’s eyes widening, then, and Bucky’s the one with the grin and he meets Steve’s eyes and breathes:

“Shut up and dance with me.”

And seeing Bucky like this had been a mixed blessing from the first time Steve walked in on it: loose limbed, no rules, moving to the rhythm without much sense to it at all—it was joy and freedom and everything Steve wanted for Bucky, but Steve was also a selfish, maudlin son of a bitch, and there was a sliver of nostalgia, of sadness, of bitterness left for what was done and what was lost because as Bucky embraced the comfort and abandon of the now, it never failed to remind Steve of the fact that where music and moving to it was obviously written in Bucky’s bones, then to now, if he was moving like _this_?

That spoke to the things that were forgotten, that they weren’t ever getting back.

Not that Steve would trade this, not for the universe. No.

It was just...a thought. A thought, that’s all.

And a fleeting one at that, when Bucky starts sucking on Steve’s skin at the jaw and says, “You need a shower.” It’s not a rebuke, but an invitation, because Bucky doesn’t stop licking at Steve’s neck as he moves them toward the bathroom. Where they do end up dancing, yeah. In a way.

Which is good, really. Great even.

Because if Steve likes showers a whole hell of a lot?

Steve _loves_ showers with Bucky.


	2. uptown funk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay second short chapter for Labor Day, etc. etc.

“Don’t do it.”

But Steve is well aware that Bucky will, is going to. Steve knows him too well.

“Buck,” he warns, fifth in hand at the bar in the common area, and he knows everyone is watching from where they stand with their own drinks. “Don’t fucking do it.”

But the beat’s too loud, and the rhythm’s too clear and Bucky has _watched_ that _fucking music video_ too many times to stop.

Steve _knows_.

So it’s not surprising when Bucky shimmies closer and leans into Steve before he says it, right along with the track:

“Fill my cup, put some liquor in it.”

And Steve, wrapped around his fella’s finger like he is, does just that. Asgardian alcohol, too. The good stuff.

And Bucky’s smile is blinding, and Steve can barely hear the way the Team cheers behind them, laughing at the spectacle as Bucky tips back his glass before half-galloping, half-strutting away.

Steve’s shaking his head as he pours himself another drink and goes to take a seat, but there’s a warm feeling that rises from the center of his chest, that radiates around his body like a wild, deathless thing and he knows it’s got nothing to do with alcohol.

Not a _damn_ thing.

He’s lost in his thoughts, and he knows he’s got that goofy, faraway look on his face for it, too; but it’s the fact that he’s lost in his thoughts with his goofy, faraway look that he misses it, when the music shifts and the words slow and Bucky does exactly what the lyrics tell him.

“Jump on it,” Bucky purrs as he settles heavy into Steve’s lap, as Steve’s gasp for the shock shifts to a moan for the pleasure.

“If you sexy, then flaunt it,” Bucky mouths at the corner of his lips, and Steve leans, seeks him out, follows the touch.

“Shall I [uptown-funk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OPf0YbXqDm0) you up, babe?” Bucky murmurs into the side of Steve’s neck, then moves to nibble at his ear. “Or is there too big of an audience?”

And because Steve wants him—and Steve’s a little bit freaky, sure, fine, he’ll own it—he tilts Bucky’s chin upward and devours him. And fuck whoever’s watching, and cheering, and catcalling.

If there’s one thing Steve Rogers hasn’t ever had where Bucky Barnes is concerned, it’s shame.


	3. happy

Honestly, Steve has no idea how they got here.

Which, okay, Steve knows how they got _here_ , as in the sublevel gym in the Tower, but he doesn’t know how they got _here_ , here: which is everybody and their uncle Sam (which is figurative, but Sam’s there, too, which is cool) shaking and swaying and popping and locking and whatever the hell else all over the goddamned floor, in between machines, footsie-ing around deadweights and whatever else is in the way, and yes, Steve’s seen the video, so he gets that that’s the point, but hell.

He’s pretty sure every news outlet in the world would kill for even just a Vine of this.

And yes, Steve knows what a Vine is.

But they’re all going at it, from Tony who’s somehow made a platform out of a bunch of benches angled inward, to Bruce, who… well.

Bruce looks a little like Steve does, when confronted with music and dancing and no Bucky to shove him into trying any harder, or pretending beyond his ken. Subtle swaying. Side-shuffling. Hands more in a fist than anything else.

But Bucky. _Bucky_.

He’s twirling Nat in something that’s clearly ballet-inspired, far more intricate and practiced than Steve can fathom, but as soon as they arch and pivot and bend and twirl between one breath and the next, they’re apart again, doing whatever they want: Nat’s all based in the hips, and Bucky, well. 

Steve’s looked that shit up, because Youtube is a real pal: and Bucky’s maybe, possibly doing something involving chicken noodle soup, whining (or wining? Fuck if Steve knows), a liquid dance that requires no liquid (which he can kind of get, given how Bucky moves his limbs, but that does bring him back to chicken noodle soup and how the better part of a century has still done nothing to demystify what it means to _dance_ ), and a kind of shake that Steve never witnessed in Harlem, himself, but it’s been a while. 

Still. 

He doesn’t notice Sam approach, nor is he prepared when Sam pushes none-too-gently on Steve’s back, leaving him to stumble forward; leaving Bucky to dance over to Steve’s off-balanced frame and sweep him up in the next rhythmic sway, Bucky’s hands arranged just so in a matter of seconds as he leads them both in a mish-mash of movement, at one point even rolling fluid and frantic and gorgeous and flawless down Steve’s body, glancing up through those lashes as he undulates, knees to shoulders, up up up until he’s drawing the air out from Steve’s chest, from Steve’s throat as he rises, surfaces: steals that same goddamn breath as he fits his lips to Steve’s: at Bucky’s whim.

Bucky’s. Just Bucky’s.

Always.

“Are you?” The words bubble forth from Steve’s swollen lips without thinking, pressed against the corner of Bucky’s mouth.

“Hmm?” Bucky hums, and it’s a visceral thing, a physical thing that shivers through Steve’s skin, Steve’s veins; that shimmers in the way Bucky’s grin curls all the more strongly, all the more like wonder, like the secrets of what it means to breathe.

“You know,” Steve ducks his head, heartbeat heady in the crease of his neck as Bucky drags his lips against the line as the song sings out the answer: “ _[Happy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y6Sxv-sUYtM)_.”

Bucky’s mouth pauses at the line of Steve’s jaw, holding there, breathing just that little bit heavier for the dancing, the arousal: Steve can relate.

He pulls back, meets Steve’s eyes.

“Are you happy, Buck?” Steve breathes, takes in Bucky’s whole face, his whole self. The set of his shoulders, the cant of his hips, the gleam of his eyes as they drink Steve in in kind, and Steve won’t ever get used to that, not ever. 

“Stevie, baby?” Bucky's eyes just get brighter, his smile gets wider, and the hand he slips into Steve’s hand is the warmest thing, the only thing. 

“I ain’t never been happier.”


	4. uma thurman

Normally, Steve hates these events. All the glitz, all the suits, all the pretense. None of Thor’s ale to ease the pain, because that’s _not for public consumption_.

Except then there’s what’s happening on the dancefloor. And Steve doesn’t hate that one bit.

Steve’s well versed in the standard line-and-other-vaguely-coordinated-dancing fare by now. He’s not _good_ at it, of course, not by a long shot, but he knows what they are. And he knows this isn’t one of them, this is new, this…

This might be something Bucky’s making up as he goes.

Because Bucky’s in the middle of a swarm of men and women of all ages, glitz and glam and all the super-rich donors that normally frequent a Stark Industries gala, stripping down to shirtsleeves and ditching thousand-dollar heels in the corner to take their turn on either hand of the resident dance-god: and he’s using both hands to twirl whoever wants a piece of the action.

Bucky is using _both hands_.

When they sing about [Mrs. Mia Wallace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2VTxYQL2SbA) herself—and they watched [that movie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WSLMN6g_Od4), too—Bucky dances in kind, a solo performance that everyone cheers on as he swings his hips and shuffles, twists from the wrists, from the ankles, tosses his hair with a dark look as he shimmies his pecs, mimics swimming, then throws v-signs across the eyes and it’s absurd but he’s a vision. _He’s_ absurd, and he’s a vision.

He’s a vision. He’s perfection.

It’s fucking _absurd_.

And if Steve blinks at the wrong moment, he ends up way-back-when, to Bucky swinging with one gorgeous dame or another, matched step for step, turning and spinning and dipping this way and that with the brass shaking through Steve’s tiny ribcage as he watched, as the sound vied for space in his chest amidst all sorts of feeling, all sorts of wanting—

But back then to right this second: this is Bucky’s element. People. A dance floor: one kind or another. And that makes Steve's heart fucking _sing_ , because there’s been so much, and Bucky was so lost for so long, and now he’s here.

They’re here.

And maybe the song’s got a point: that man, right there, charming every person in the room—he _could_ move mountains, saving Steve, heart and soul and body over and again. He _has_ worked his share of miracles, back from the dead, back from the darkness in his mind but not his heart, because Steve knows that heart and he knows how it railed against what was done with the body it belonged to, with the mind tied up in its beats and Steve believes in miracles, he believes it because fuck, they're _here_. 

So yeah, Steve believes that.

The song winds down, and the cheer is deafening. Bucky’s beaming, and he takes an exaggerated bow. The next song starts up: slower, but not by much, and older, Steve can tell by the quality of the recording. It’s not from their time, no, but the rhythm’s similar enough that Bucky could have nailed it.

Bucky could have nailed it without even stopping to think, and Steve knows it.

Once upon a time.

Which is why there’s a little pang in Steve’s chest, here and now, when Bucky waves off his adoring fans who have yet to scramble for their respective shoes and jackets, and holds to the wall as he retreats, all smiles and no rush, no urgency, just a choice to sit this one out.

And as usual, Steve’s lost in that thought, that smidge of grief and mourning, so much so that he doesn’t even realize, doesn’t even notice until there’s a hand on the back of his neck, and a body he knows better than his own pressed smooth into his space, the perfect fit it’s always been, and that fact, after everything, is another reason that Steve believes in miracles, every so often. Every now and then.

“Think I’m ready to turn in, babydoll,” Bucky breathes against his lips; not a kiss, but just as good. “What d’ya say?”

And Steve reads the intention in Bucky’s eyes, and his heart starts pumping hard at the heat in that gaze, and yeah. 

Steve thinks he’s more than ready to call it a night.


	5. hey mama

The music is just a background hum, really, as Bucky tidies up: there’s nothing _to_ tidy up, really, and they _could_ call the bots up for that kind of work, but between them, Bucky’s always been the straightener. Always been more fussy about where things went, about this and that in their proper places.

Steve used to get frustrated with it, because it made him feel guilty, like he wasn’t pulling his weight, and Steve tended to use anger to cover up where he didn’t quite pass muster. Now, though, he sits on the couch with a book or his sketchpad and he watches Bucky move out of the corner of his eyes and gets nothing read and nothing drawn because the sight of Bucky idly putzing and rearranging the knick-knacks they’ve acquired—and they have _knick-knacks_ , good god, and Steve never thought he’d live to see it, Steve never dreamed _they’d_ live to see it—but the sight, the familiarity, the peace on Bucky’s face that’s only broken by the most innocuous of frowns because golly-gee their _shot-glass collection_ needs to be reorganized: it makes Steve weak in the knees. It reminds Steve what breathlessness is, for how big it is inside his chest. Steve still recalls what it felt like to have a heart too small to fit his wanting, his yearning, his love way back when but his heart is full, now, and strong, and he can’t even process what it means that it still can’t hold _this_.

Jesus Christ, but he’s so far gone on this jerk, he can’t see straight.

“Whatcha smirkin’ at, punk?”

Bucky’s eyeing him playfully, but the question’s genuine.

“Nothin’,” Steve shrugs, and knows Bucky sees through it by the shadow-grin that ghosts over his features as he goes back to arranging things on the shelves.

Steve’s just convinced himself to return to his book when the music shifts, louder than it had been just by virtue of the style.

“Oh, damn,” Bucky murmurs, likely more to himself than anything else, and Steve may or may not give up on reading when he notices Bucky’s hips starting to sway with the rhythm.

 

Bucky’s humming through the first chorus, and then, between the bass of Steve’s pulse and the rumble of the speakers, Bucky’s in front of him, all sly smiles and pelvis thrust forward as he slips between Steve’s legs.

“Yes I do the cooking,” Bucky sings along, rolling his hips as he lowers himself torturously slow to the vee of Steve’s thighs where his jeans are getting noticeably tight really fucking fast.

“‘Cause I’m bad at it,” Steve volleys, a little short on breath. It’s true, though.

Steve’s a pretty shitty cook.

“Yes I do the cleaning.”

“You could totally leave that to the robots.”

“Yes I keep the nana real sweet for your eating,” and that’s the straw that breaks, because Bucky’s grinding his own hard cock down against Steve’s, using these tiny, delicate circular motions with just enough pressure that Steve can feel the twitch of Bucky’s dick and goddamn, just.

God _damn_. 

“Buck,” Steve gasps; “I don’t think that’s the ‘nana’ she’s talkin’ about.”

And Bucky smirks. “Frankly, Stevie?” And the bastard just adds a little back and forth action to the circular rolls and Steve’s gonna come in his pants. He’s sure of it.

“I don’t give a damn.”

And Bucky’s swooping in and devouring Steve’s like he’s ravenous, like Steve is a prize, and Steve’s rocking into Bucky’s weight on his lap and Bucky’s sucking on Steve’s mouth and reaching down to grip Steve’s hips and bring him closer, closer, closer.

“Banging the drum like dum di di dey,” and the way Bucky’s fingers trail to squeeze, to massage the globes of his ass with the lyrical rhythm he exhales out: it does crazy things to Steve, it blurs his vision and makes him need in a way that leaves him burning, that leaves him reckless.

“I know you want it in the worst way,” and he’s teasing the crease of Steve’s ass through the fabric of his jeans before he spreads his legs wider to straddle Steve, to bear down more deeply as Steve feels himself approaching the edge so fucking quick, he should be embarrassed, should turn red for it, but goddamn, that ain’t what’s flushing his skin just now, not even close. 

“[I wanna hear you calling my name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uO59tfQ2TbA)—”

“ _Fuck_ , Bucky,” Steve arches, and he comes right in his jeans with Bucky grinding against him, pleased as punch, riding out the beat of the song that Steve can’t even hear anymore over his own gasping, over the freight-train rumble of his heart. 

“Just like that baby,” Bucky mouths against Steve’s neck; Steve can’t hear that either, but he can feel it straight through. 

“Just like that.”


	6. i don't know why (i just do)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end, lovelies. This chapter was the reason that this fic wasn't just posted as a single one-shot. I do hope y'all enjoy :D

“Sleepy-head Rogers,” the voice at his ear hums softly. “Dinner’s ready.”

Steve hadn't meant to doze off, honest. He'd just been so comfortable, and the apartment had been so warm, and the food had smelled so good.

And Bucky’s already carrying plates to the coffee table in front of him, just as Steve rubs his eyes and groans, sitting up slowly, blinking heavily.

“I can come to the table,” Steve protests, but it’s more of a whine, and that probably gives him away. He still hasn’t managed to untangle from the blanket that he’d wrapped up in less for heat and more for the feeling of home.

“Naw,” Bucky brings them both a glass of wine—sweet stuff that’s all for flavor because the alcohol doesn’t touch them—and drops a kiss to the top of Steve’s head before sitting down beside him. “No need.”

“Fuckin’ love you,” Steve leans over and kisses Bucky’s cheek while he grabs his plate—chicken parm, from the looks of it—and lets his lips linger to feel the rise of Bucky’s cheeks in a smile as he reaches for his own meal.

“I know.”

And Steve smiles, too, because the food is delicious. Because Bucky is next to him. Because Steve can feel the brush of his shoulders when he breathes.

Because Bucky _knows_ that he’s _loved_ , and that kind of surety, that kind of settled certitude is beautiful; is something Steve thought he’d never see again.

He basks in it, and thanks whoever’s listening for the fact that he was wrong.

“Good?” Bucky breaks Steve’s musing after long moments; nods to his empty plate with a grin. Steve rolls his eyes.

“You know it was.”

“Yeah,” Bucky smirks all the more glowingly, all the more _right_ ; “I do.”

“You’re an asshole,” Steve says as Bucky takes their dishes to the sink, stopping where his phone rests in the audio dock on his way back from the kitchen and tapping up the volume.

“Mood music?” Steve asks idly, before he can really catch the tune.

“Something like that,” Bucky murmurs, eyes distant, and then Steve hears it. Gets it.

Steve was never as up on music as Bucky; he listened enough when he could, sure, but he was never the one dancing with the girls, showing off his moves. He didn’t have the passion for it that Bucky did. But Steve knows it when he hears Glenn Miller. Knows what the record looked like. The color of it. The creases in the sleeve as Steve stared at it, tried like hell to get it for Bucky’s birthday and had gotten sick and missed too much work to afford it. He knows it.

Steve’s heart jumps to his throat, bleeding and bursting and weak.

“Come on, Stevie,” Bucky quirks a brow at him, hand outstretched and beckoning. “You’re not gonna leave me hanging, are you?”

“Buck?”

Steve stares long enough that the song joined halfway-through is already winding down, and Bucky levels an unimpressed look in his direction as something softer starts to play.

“Aww, I see how it is. Cunning, Rogers,” Bucky scoffs a little. “Stare all slack-jawed until something slow and sweet came on. Can’t tell if that’s romantic, or if it’s just lazy.”

He pulls Steve up whether he likes it or not, then, and holds him real close. “My toes can stand your shitty swing, punk.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, for lack of another thing to really say when Bucky’s that close and the vaguely familiar chords are humming, calling out, and Bucky’s body knowing the motions with the practice, with the ease that only time imparts, and Steve’s dumbstruck, for a moment. “I don’t—”

“I know you better than you know yourself, Stevie,” Bucky’s voice is close, is low, and the way he traces the edges of Steve’s face is infinitely tender, absolutely adoring. “Always have.”

Bucky twirls them slow, languid, in no hurry at all before he adds in a dip that’s entirely timed based on Bucky’s whims, and nothing else.

“You didn’t think I remembered.”

And it’s true. Steve stares dumb, at that, because no, he didn’t think Bucky remembered, and that was the catch, the rub: the idea that Bucky had found such joy and that should never have been sullied by anything left behind but Steve couldn’t get past it, couldn’t help but feel cheated, wronged on his lover's behalf and—

“You know what I remember?” Bucky halts Steve’s inner turmoil; smiles soft. “[This song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJzUaF057-E),” he leans into Steve’s neck, mouths the words into the skin. “This song was playing when I realized it.”

And Bucky pulls back, and cups Steve’s face in gentle hands that savor, that _want_ ; and the look in his eyes is both something Steve sees every day, and something Steve’s never seen before.

“When I realized how much I fucking loved you,” Bucky breathes. “So damn much it hurt, but it was the best hurt, Stevie, the _best_ ,” Bucky’s voice strains and he strokes the skin of Steve’s cheek with the smooth touch of his left hand. “The _only_ hurt, and I…”

Steve turns, and maybe he’s trembling just a little for reasons he can’t name, but he turns his head and he kisses the metal of Bucky’s palm and Bucky’s eyes slip closed and it is perfect.

There is nothing more in the world.

“Stevie,” and Bucky slides his hands slow down Steve’s body, still swaying them softly to the music but it’s secondary, it’s all secondary as he tangles their hands together, fingers laced. 

“I know it hurts you, to think on what’s lost.” Steve's throat tightens at the words, and the earnestness and the care and the compassion in Bucky’s eyes and the fact that those eyes can speak again, can hold that _much_ again; Steve’s throat tightens. His eyes sting.

“And that’s why I want you to know that it wasn’t, it isn’t,” Bucky’s lips quirk; a little laugh in the them, but a little sadness too as he nods at their slow-stepping feet. 

“Not _this_ , at least.”

And Bucky was always sweet, was always a charmer; always had a heart too big for his own damn good, caring beyond what he had to give but not what he _could_ give, because if Steve never shied from a fight, then Bucky never shied from a challenge to the goodness of his nature: he rises like lightning, and after everything he still shields Steve, still protects _Steve_ and Steve almost can’t bear it; it’s almost too much.

“But baby,” Bucky soothes with the tone he used to use when Steve was feverish, delirious; that Bucky uses for the nightmares; that’s made of strength and will and love. “It doesn’t matter either way.”

He tries for a smile, and catches the tears that escape Steve’s eyes before they fall, which almost makes them less than real, which almost takes them away entirely for the heaviness he lifts off Steve’s chest in the process. 

“The reason I don’t do the same things I used to, as often as I used to, isn’t because I don’t remember them. At least,” Bucky’s tiny smile turns wry, and he bumps his shoulder against Steve’s, coaxes a wet sort of chuckle from Steve’s throat. “Not always.”

Steve leans in and nudges his nose against Bucky’s, because he’s a fucking sap, and he always has been for this goddamn jerk in front of him, he can’t even pretend otherwise.

He doesn’t _want_ to pretend otherwise. Not ever.

“The reason I do things different is because the things that make me happy are different now,” Bucky tells him, breathes against Steve’s skin and Steve lets his eyes slip shut and just keeps it close, the feeling. Keeps it safe.

“Dancing made me happy, then. And dancing’s different now.”

He frames Steve’s face again, runs long fingers through Steve’s hair before he cradles the back of Steve’s head in both hands, and yeah. Yeah, dancing really is different now.

“ _You_ make me happy,” he leans closer in emphasis, eyes wide and bare and full of so much, _so_ much.

“And you’re different now,” Bucky explains softly. “I’m different now.” And Steve can’t argue that. There’s no point.

“I remember what was then. How we were. What we had.” Bucky confesses, voice still low and barely a whisper: not evasive, or hesitant, but private. Intimate. Just for them.

“And I love that.”

He kisses the corner of Steve’s mouth, and Steve can’t help but smile, just a bit. Lost to it.

“I love when the memories are sweet, Stevie,” he breathes against the part in Steve’s lips. “You have no idea how I love the sweet memories, and how hard I hold onto them.”

And Bucky’s voice doesn’t crack, but it’s a near thing. Steve’s heart doesn’t break, but that’s a near thing, too.

Bucky’s warm and solid against him, though. They’re swaying to a deep voice, crooning a truth Steve never would have seen coming back then. Never would have dared to hope on, to list in his prayers for whatever it was deemed: sin or salvation. Both. 

All things.

“But Steve,” Bucky picks back up, and the lyrics swoop as Bucky sways Steve closer to him, pressed hips to chest.

“I got you _now_ ,” he murmurs, and it’s all liquid gold and molten sunlight and the first breath of dawn on the first day of spring. “And now is so big, and so full, and it’s terrifying but it’s perfect because it’s with _you_. And those memories are bright spots in the darkness, and there’s so much darkness in the middle Stevie.” 

Bucky shakes his head, cuts that off. Lets that lie.

“And now,” Bucky’s smile isn’t tight, then, or small, or held back by anything. Bucky’s smile is what it used to be: free and light and made of the impossible shimmer of the first snow, the first freeze before it stuck in Steve’s lungs like a danger, when it was still heaven-bright and made him feel alive; Bucky’s smile is where it used to live, above the clouds and swirled in pastel promise; is made of possibility and hope that Steve hadn’t seen since they were boys, since before his Ma died.

It’s _beautiful_.

“Now can just be here, and bright. Now can be me, and you, and all the fucking love and joy and laughter and, and…”

And Bucky stills them, even though they were only lightly swaying, only softly winding. Bucky holds Steve at the biceps and looks him straight in the eye, right down to the soul.

“Now can be us, and new memories, and so much light that neither one of us can even stand it.”

Steve is still, Steve’s blood in the veins is shining, is trembling as Bucky takes his hands at the wrists, and it means something. It’s different than it usually is. Steve can feel it.

“I love you,” Bucky tells him. Pure and simple, and it still takes Steve’s breath away. He can’t explain it. 

“And we _had_ then,” Bucky looks at their hands. “I want _now_.” He squeezes his fingers around Steve’s hands, around Steve’s wrists, around Steve’s pulse before be exhales:

“And I want forever after that.”

It takes Steve more moments than he’ll readily admit for his brain to refocus, for his heart to understand and start tripping accordingly.

“Buck,” Steve breathes, uncertain, but taking Bucky’s example; remembers what it means to be so full of _hope_

“Buck, what are,” and Steve stammers, when Bucky’s fingers lift his hand—his left hand. When Bucky raises Steve’s palm to his lips, and kisses the front of his fourth finger, the back at the knuckle, rings around it with his mouth, eyes heavy with the meaning of it, with the words all unsaid.

“Are you, you’re,” Steve shivers when Bucky’s tongue teases the skin of his hand, raises goosebumps all over. “Are you _askin’_ —”

“Think I’ve always been askin’,” Bucky tells him. “One way or another.”

And it’s that easy. It’s that written in their bones.

“And I’ve always been answering,” Steve breathes back. “I’ve always been sayin’ yes.”

And Bucky grins like life renewed, and Steve grabs for him and pulls him close and kisses him senseless without a thought in his mind except the one he says between their open mouths:

“I love you. I love you,” Steve gasps, and ducks against Bucky’s chin. “I love you more’n life.”

“I love you,” Bucky gives it back, sacred and yet the most simple, most fundamental of things. “God, Stevie,” he leans in to kiss again. “I _love_ you.”

And they kiss until their mouths are swollen, are red, are numb but the taste still lingers, and they laugh because that’s what joy is.

And when they link hands again and straighten, Steve smiles with all the hope of yesterday, and all the promise of tomorrow.

“Come on, jerk,” he nudges Bucky toward the bedroom; “put on something we can dance to.”

And Bucky smiles back, and kisses him hard, and dancing standing-up is gorgeous. But dancing lying down?

Well. 

That’s a thing that time ain’t never changed.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com).


End file.
